


Leaves

by DiscordantWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Hallucinations, Horror, M/M, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon, darkish, it's a horror story it's meant to be a bit unsettling, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:35:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8394718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: It came on a Wednesday, with the post.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Листья](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12758790) by [Dreaming_Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Cat/pseuds/Dreaming_Cat)



> This was written for the 2016 Spook Me! Ficathon. My prompt was "plant."

It came on a Wednesday, with the post. A little box, wrapped in brown paper, addressed in a neat hand to Mr Sherlock Holmes. There was no return address. 

John had looked at it, hoped idly that it was not a bomb, and set it aside with the rest of Sherlock's mail. 

"That package," he'd said, later, when Sherlock lifted his head up from the sofa, blinking away the ethereal walls of his mind palace. "There's no return address. You don't think—"

Sherlock had been up off of the sofa and tearing into the box before John could complete his sentence. 

"Given the number of people who want to kill you," he'd said. "You'd think you'd be a bit more cautious with suspicious packages."

"Suspicious?" Sherlock had answered, distracted. "What makes it suspicious? The lack of address? Thanks to your _blog_ , clients now seem to feel they need to display some sort of catchy hook in order to bait me into taking their case." 

"Right," John said. "Yeah." 

Three weeks ago, a woman desperate to secure Sherlock's services in investigating her (boring) stalker (coworker bitter at being overlooked for promotion, behaving in threatening manner to intimidate her into leaving the company), had begun leaving decapitated dolls on their front step. 

Sherlock had been intrigued by the first, irritated by the second, and positively frothing with rage over the third. He'd solved the case for her out of spite. 

John had elected not to point out that her methods had, in fact, worked. 

"Besides," Sherlock said, his lip tugging upward into one of his little half-smiles. "It's not ticking." 

He tossed the paper packing aside, lifting out the contents of the box. It was a small plant in a ceramic pot, wilted leaves drooping. 

Sherlock furrowed his brow and scrunched up his face in an exaggerated expression of bewilderment, holding the plant up to the light. The leaves quivered a bit, stirred by his breath. 

He gave it a thorough looking-over, eyes flicking rapidly as though determined to unravel some deeper meaning to it. 

"Boring," he declared, after a long period of scrutiny. He looked offended at having expended the effort. He deposited the plant on the windowsill, left the room in a flurry of dressing gown. 

John stood and went over to the windowsill, looking down at the little pot. The plant was a strange, sad little thing, shriveled, dried out. It didn't look like any plant he'd ever seen, but, then, he'd never really been much for houseplants. 

He tipped a little cup of water into the dry soil.

*

He did not dream about Mary. 

He had thought that he might, given the way it all ended. His brain had already demonstrated a penchant for making him relive traumatic moments. 

But she remained as elusive to his subconscious as she had been to him in waking hours, mysterious, insubstantial. 

Like she'd never been there at all. 

In a way, he supposed that was true. 

He slept well at Baker Street. He always had. 

In the meantime, there were cases, and squabbles with Sherlock over human organs in the microwave, and there were days he woke up in his little upstairs bedroom and could let himself believe he'd never left at all. 

*

The plant struggled. 

It vexed him, more than it should have. He shifted it on the windowsill, chasing shafts of late afternoon sunlight. He kept it watered. 

Still it drooped, wilted, withered. 

"Have you been smoking in the flat?" he'd demanded of Sherlock one afternoon, prodding at the limp leaves. He imagined the plant gasping and struggling for air, suffocating in a noxious cloud.

Sherlock had simply looked at him, face revealing nothing. 

*

"Just throw it away," Sherlock said one evening, impatient, as John tutted and fussed over the little plant, clipping away the dead leaves, testing the soil moisture. 

"It's not dead yet," John said. 

"Near enough." 

John grit his teeth, ignored him. He could not say, exactly, why he wanted the little plant to live. Only that he did.

*

A case took them on a merry chase through a restaurant kitchen. Sherlock cracked a murderous chef over the head with a frying pan. A waiter, in turn, struck Sherlock in the face with a serving tray and then, inexplicably, a pie.

John wrangled the man to the ground, and Sherlock explained his deductions to Lestrade with whipped cream in his hair and blood running down his chin from a split lip. 

They walked home after, and Sherlock grinned, spat red onto the pavement. 

Back in the flat, John held him by the chin underneath a lamp in the sitting room by the window, checking for himself that none of Sherlock's teeth had been knocked loose. 

They were close in the lamplight, noses almost brushing. Sherlock smelled like sugar and cigarette smoke and coppery dried blood. His breath was warm against John's cheek. He had toweled the worst of the whipped cream out of his hair, but the strands still stuck together in odd, stiff little bunches. 

"I think you can avoid a trip to the dentist," John said, his fingers still gripping Sherlock's face, the moment stretching on just ever slightly too long. 

"Good," Sherlock said, and stepped back. He went into the bathroom, turned on the shower. 

*

The next morning, John made himself tea and toast and sat at the little desk in the sitting room, typing up a draft post for his blog. He finished his toast, swiped the crumbs off of the table with a napkin. Leaned back in his chair, stretched. 

His gaze caught on the windowsill. 

The plant had perked up overnight. 

He stood up from his chair in a rush. The wooden legs clattered against the floor. He worried for a moment that he might have woken Sherlock, and then thought of the many times he'd been roused from a deep sleep by the screech of a violin and dismissed the concern.

He went over to the windowsill, bent to examine the plant. 

It looked bigger, healthier. The leaves were no longer drooping, had deepened in colour to a rich green. The edges of the leaves were tipped in red. It was—well, it was really quite lovely. 

"Oh, good," Sherlock drawled from the doorway. "Now you can stop obsessing over it." 

He looked half asleep, hair rumpled. His lip had scabbed over in the night, the dried blood nearly black in the shadows. 

"I don't obsess over it," John said, but it was a weak argument. He went into the kitchen to make himself another cup of tea. 

*

They spent the day tracking a moderately clever art forger. Sherlock donned a fake moustache and a bad suit and pretended to be an interested buyer. 

John watched from a few paces away, feigning disinterest. Sherlock with his fake moustache and still-raw split lip set something heavy and unpleasant in the pit of his stomach. 

They returned to the flat successful, Sherlock grinning and bouncing on his feet, pleased with himself. 

John did not smile, did not laugh, did not join in. 

Instead, he thought about a posh restaurant, about Mary sitting across from him, Mary in a fancy dress with her hair done up and surrounded by a pleasingly faint cloud of Clair de la Lune. Mary, who had never really been Mary at all. 

And Sherlock, of course, Sherlock appearing from beyond the veil with a smirk and an accent and a drawn-on moustache. 

He begged off of the celebratory post-case takeaway, went upstairs to his room and shut the door, left Sherlock alone in the sitting room. 

*

He was back at the Landmark in his dreams. 

Mary sat across from him, smirk-smiling in that way he'd once found charming and later found profoundly unsettling. Her eyes were wide, expectant. 

He fiddled with the cuffs of his suit jacket. Cleared his throat. Fidgeted.

"Mary," he said. "I don't dream of you." 

"No?" She leaned across the table, propped her chin up on folded hands, watching him. "What would you call this, then?"

He sat back in his chair, frowned. 

"And don't say something cliché like a nightmare," she chided. There was a twinkle in her eye. 

"Now that you mention it," he said. 

Her face hardened, just a touch. She crossed her arms, studied him. Her eyes flicked up over his shoulder. "Oh," she said. "This ought to be interesting." 

There was motion to his left, and his heart clenched. 

"Sherlock," he said. 

"Eh, hello," Sherlock said, his voice distorted in a terrible French accent. He was sporting a drawn-on moustache that had gone crooked at the ends. "I was endeavoring to surprise you, but, eh, you do not seem surprised." 

"Oh, good, you brought the champagne," Mary said, standing, taking the bottle from Sherlock's hands. Her fingertips found the cork, tapped against it with her nails. 

"Mary," John said. 

"This is a cause for celebration," she said, and smiled.

She shook the bottle with one hand, pointed it teasingly at Sherlock and pressed up on the cork with her thumb. It popped like a gunshot, champagne frothing over her hand, spattering onto the table. 

"Oh," Sherlock said.

John turned, looked. There was a wet crimson bloom spreading across Sherlock's white shirt. His eyes had gone very wide.

Not a cork, John thought, but a bullet. 

"You weren't paying attention," Mary said, licking champagne off of her fingertips. 

He bolted awake, sweat-soaked, alone in his little upstairs bedroom at Baker Street. His heart thundered his chest, battering against his ribs. He took a shuddering, rasping breath, then another, then another. 

*

Over his morning tea, he noticed that the plant had wilted again, sagging dramatically onto the windowsill. 

It reminded him, oddly, of Sherlock caught up in post-case ennui. Miserable, drooping, listless. Inconsolable. 

He crouched down, stared at it, the sad pale little leaves. The very life seemed to have bled out of them.

*

He didn't dream. 

*

The plant was worse on the morning, curled in on itself, desiccated. A sad, sorry sight.

The Baker Street flat was just the wrong kind of environment for houseplants. Clearly. He should just throw it away and be done with it. 

He moved to do just that. The clay pot was cool under his fingers. Under the light, dried, a rusty spot. He scratched at it with a fingernail. Blood. Must have dripped from Sherlock's lip as John was holding him under the lamp to get a proper look at him. 

A snatch of a line from an old movie, long forgotten. _What do you want from me, blood?_

Oh. 

_Oh._

He swallowed, looked away. The thought made him feel vaguely ill; Sherlock's blood soaked up by thirsty soil. The concrete in front of Barts had taken him in just as greedily. 

He'd throw the plant away. He would, he decided. After he knew for certain. 

He went into the bathroom, fetched his medical kit. Set about sterilizing the tip of his finger with an alcohol swab, pricked it with a fresh lancet. A ruby bead of blood welled up and he held his hand out over the plant, squeezed one drop, then two, then three. 

It pattered off of the leaves like gentle rain, dripped down onto dark soil. 

He took his hand back, carefully wiped and bandaged his finger. 

Sherlock was watching him, silently from the doorway, when he turned around. 

"Papercut," John said. He held up his finger, nodded at the bandage.

He took his bag back into the bathroom, put it away, studiously avoided Sherlock's eyes. 

*

Later, Sherlock slumped in his chair, scrolling through client emails on his phone, making irritated derisive noises. 

It was a pleasant, familiar backdrop, soothing almost, and John half-dozed on the sofa while watching telly until he thought to look over at the windowsill. 

The plant had perked, again, its leaves once more robust and healthy, stretching out towards the sunlight. 

John stood, went over to look at it. It had grown, he thought, impossible as it seemed. 

A shudder of revulsion went through him and he pursed his lips, looked down at his bandaged fingertip.

"I suppose calling you Audrey would be a bit too on the nose," he said to the plant. 

"What?" Sherlock lifted his head up, stared.

"This plant—" 

An impatient sigh, bored, put-out. 

"Sherlock, seriously. I've never seen anything quite like this before." 

"Do you have a heretofore unmentioned affinity for plants?" 

John blinked at him. "What? No, not particularly. But—"

Sherlock set his phone down, straightened himself up in the way he did when he was about to explain something tedious in a condescending way. There was a half-smirk on his face, and not a particularly nice one. 

John knew the face well. 

It was not often directed at him. 

In fact, he couldn't recall it being directed at him for a good long time. Not with any real intent. Not since Sherlock returned, really. Since everything with Mary. Since—

"John," Sherlock said. "There are more than three hundred and fifty thousand species of plants _that we know of._ Do you mean to tell me that your knowledge of plants is so comprehensive that I should find it noteworthy that you've never before encountered this particular variation?" 

"No," John said, taking his coat off of the hook, heading for the door. "I suppose not." 

*

He only made it to the end of the street before he stopped. Shook his head. Turned around, ignored the irritated noises from strangers around him as he disrupted the flow of foot traffic. 

He'd told himself when he moved back to Baker Street that he was done leaving. He'd meant it. 

There was no sense in storming out of the flat every time Sherlock did something mildly irritating. It was Sherlock. Mildly irritating was his natural state. 

He went back up the stairs, hung his coat back up on the hook. 

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice tight. "Didn't sleep well last night. I'm just going to throw that plant out, all right?" 

He started towards the window, stopped because Sherlock was bent over the little pot, studying the leaves. His face was intent, silvery eyes narrowed with concentration. 

"Where did you say this came from?" Sherlock asked him, not looking up. 

John rubbed his face with the palm of his hand, sighed. "Came in the post. Maybe a month ago? No return address. You knew this." 

Sherlock shrugged. "Wasn't paying attention. Didn't seem relevant." 

"And it's relevant now?" 

Sherlock turned to look at him, then, his face still and serious. His gaze flicked to John's finger, back up to his face. 

"It may warrant further study."

"What happened to three hundred and fifty thousand species of plants?"

"Well. I did say three hundred and fifty thousand _known_ species of plants," Sherlock conceded. He frowned. "You said something. Earlier. Called it a name. Why?" 

"Audrey," John said, and laughed a little. "It's—of course you wouldn't—it's from a movie. It just struck me, that's all." 

There was a little bud tucked away amidst the spreading leaves, he realized. Yellow-tipped, a burgeoning flower of some kind. 

Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer, gaze steady, as if trying to divine all of his secrets. When he spoke, his voice was uncertain. "Why would anyone name a plant?" 

John shook his head, suddenly both fond and tired in equal measure. "No reason." 

*

He took to calling it Irene, in his head, in a fit of pique. Only in his head. Never out loud. He reasoned that she'd always been a bit of a bloodsucker, anyway. 

*

In his dreams he stood on the pavement in front of Barts, looking up. The ground beneath his feet was infirm, viscous, thick and sticky. Pulling him down. 

He tried to walk, stumbled, went to one knee. The pavement was warm, yielding. 

"Sherlock," he said, helpless. 

The silhouetted figure on the roof tossed his phone away, took flight. 

The ground surged up to meet him, a thick rolling wave of wet concrete. 

"Sher—" John said, pulled under, the street itself lapping against his face, filling his mouth, his nose. He gagged. He fought his way up, frantic, searching.

Sherlock had disappeared into the ground, nothing but a vivid smear of red, there then gone. Gone.

*

The morninglight was harsh, invasive, needling through the thin skin of his eyelids. 

He dragged his eyes open, lurched sideways out of bed. He felt dried out, hungover, wrong.

Down the stairs in his bare feet, steps thudding. 

Sherlock had moved the plant onto the kitchen table, was carefully dripping blood onto the leaves with a pipette. 

The plant had nearly doubled in size overnight, veined leaves unfurling lazily from thick, sinuous vines. It looked well-fed, indolent, content. 

John watched the blood spatter onto the leaves, rolling off, leaving crimson trails in their wake. He thought of Sherlock, disappearing into the undulating pavement, nothing but a splash of red left behind on the surface. He shut his eyes, breathed through his nose. 

"Tell me you haven't been bleeding yourself dry all morning for that thing," he said. His voice almost sounded normal. A little sleep-rough, perhaps. 

"Went to Barts," Sherlock said, and John's heart stuttered, just for a moment, his brain still caught up in the remnants of his dream. 

He forced himself to keep moving, put the kettle on, stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other while it boiled. 

"I've been testing various samples. It seems to prefer human over animal, although it shows no discernible preference for a particular race, sex or age." 

John shook his head, because it was too early for this, and his head was still muddled. "Preference," he said. "You say that as if it can think." 

"It certainly reacts favorably to warm blood," Sherlock said. "Fresh would be better, but—"

"No," John said, and sat down at the table. His mug was warm between his palms. 

"I've attempted to take clippings," Sherlock said. "For further study. But—" 

He took hold of one leaf, to illustrate. It quivered between his long fingers. Furled up, shrank back. 

"—It defends itself," he continued. "Fascinating." 

The little bud in the center had opened. The shy emerging petals were yellow, fragrant. It looked hollow, almost tubular. 

"Pitcher plants," John said, remembering them from his childhood. He, like many boys his age, fascinated by carnivorous plants, teasing fragile hairs on Venus flytraps with clumsy fingers. 

Sherlock would have been fascinated by carnivorous plants, too, he thought. It was strange, to think there was anything at all that could have been called similar about their boyhoods. 

"Similar," Sherlock said. "But not quite." 

John leaned over to get a better look at the flower. The yellow was vibrant, the mouth of the pitcher almost obscene, fat and yawing open. Growing. One of the measured drips of blood from Sherlock's pipette rolled down its center and John thought he saw something _move_ inside. Almost like a tongue. 

"Sherlock." 

"Just the stamen," Sherlock said, unconcerned.

His hand was trembling, John realized. The measured drips of blood from the pipette weren't as measured as they'd first appeared. His hair was in disarray, his eyes shadowed and wide. 

"Did you sleep?" he asked. 

"No. Busy," Sherlock said. 

He might have believed it, had Sherlock still been wearing the same clothes as the day before. But he'd showered, dressed. Implying he'd put on pyjamas at some point the night before, retired to his bedroom. 

_Did you dream?_ he didn't ask. 

*

John went up the stairs at Baker Street, the strap of his duffel heavy against his shoulder. The stairs were endless, stretching up and up and up and he counted as he climbed but could not seem to get higher than seventeen.

Someone was playing a violin, distant, plaintive. The notes danced through thin air like dust motes, settling around him. He climbed and climbed and climbed. Seventeen steps. Home, waiting for him at the top, just out of reach. 

*

"You haven't been—" John said, over tea. He cleared his throat, looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. 

"Hm?" Sherlock, distracted, his head bent over vines and leaves. The plant had sprawled, taking over the bulk of the kitchen table. There was a vegetal scent in the air, heavy, rich. 

His laptop was open on the table next to him, tabs upon tabs about plants. Pitcher plants. Venus flytraps. Sundews. Bladderwort. 

A vine had come to rest across the keyboard, leaves rustling gently against the screen. 

"Dreaming." 

Sherlock lifted his head. He had not shaved. His cheeks looked hollow, eyes dark. 

"Make sense, John," he commanded. He yawned, snapped his jaw shut to cut it off. His chest rose and fell. 

"I've been dreaming," John said. "Weird ones. It's. Making it hard to sleep. I don't normally—" he rubbed the back of his neck, looked away. "I don't normally dream. Here. I used to, when— But not. Not here. It's unusual." 

"Unusual," Sherlock said, slow, as if testing out the word. "Any particular reason you're bringing this up?" 

"Just making sure you haven't been drugging my tea." 

There was a flicker of something on Sherlock's face, an odd mixture of hurt and revelation. His lips parted on a silent exhalation. 

John waited for an explanation. Waited. Waited. 

Sherlock did not speak, simply bent his head back down to the leaves. The plant quivered, almost in welcome. 

*

Texts from Lestrade went unanswered. 

Emails piled up in the inbox. 

*

"You've been different," John said. 

Sherlock, perched in his chair, studied him, eyes pale, gleaming in the lamplight. "Have I?" 

"Since I moved back." 

Sherlock shrugged, looked away, eyes skimming over the bookshelves. There were leaves growing between the spines of old books. 

John looked down. The rug undulated gently, waves of faded carpet fibers lapping around the legs of his chair. He lifted his feet up and the carpet splashed up after him. 

"Maybe you're the one who's different," Sherlock said. His chair had capsized, was bobbing on the surface. He was unconcerned, sinking, disappearing.

John held out his hand, stretched towards him. "Don't," he said. 

His fingers brushed against the carpet, scraped at dirt and dust and came away empty. 

*

Mrs. Hudson departed, abruptly, for her sister's. 

She did not quite look them in the eye as she said her hasty farewells, took her suitcase out into the damp air to wait on the kerb for a cab. 

Sherlock spent hours bent over the plant, studying it, documenting it, recording it, feeding it. 

He'd stopped going to Barts for samples. He'd stopped going out at all. 

He texted Molly, periodically, with requests. He had John meet her at the door, take the cooler from her hands, thank her, send her on her way. She was not invited up. 

There was worry on her face, unvoiced. She pursed her lips and went on her way.

After, John watched him in quiet fascination, dropping finger after finger down its throat. 

Sherlock observed, took notes. 

John pretended he didn't hear the crunch of bones. 

*

"Have you thought about _why?_ " he asked. 

"You're dreaming," Sherlock said, serene. 

"No," John said. "I'm not." 

"You are."

Sherlock stood up, walked across the room, opened the window. Outside, London was silent, empty. Cars had stopped in the middle of the street, wheels vine-choked, doors hanging open. 

"Oh," John said. 'I guess I am." He looked back at Sherlock, his heart heavy, his eyes dampening. "You'll be leaving, then." 

"Why would I leave?" Sherlock looked bewildered, but there were vines stretching through the window, twining unseen, unnoticed around his arms, his throat, his waist. 

"You always do," John said. 

A ropy vine tightened around Sherlock's pale throat, jerking him backwards. He slid across the floor, through the floor, without protest. 

John went after him, because he always did. His feet sank into spongy ground, sluggish, inefficient, rooted. 

*

"Have you thought about _why?_ " he asked.

The kitchen smelled green, wet, verdant. Sherlock had showered, his own damp clean smell mingling pleasantly with the humid jungle air. 

"Nefarious purposes, no doubt," Sherlock said. 

The plant was the size of a pony, vines cascading off of the kitchen table, crawling across the floor. Sherlock's laptop had been engulfed, the battery long dead. He had not bothered to extract it.

The flower, vivid yellow, wide-mouthed, warm, seemed to breathe. Sherlock's face was very close to its petals, his chest rising and falling in syncopated motion, irregular. 

Irene, John had called the plant, back when it had seemed darkly humorous. He'd been a bit jealous, hadn't he, of the single minded attention that Sherlock had suddenly shown it. 

He couldn’t recall why he'd ever found it funny. 

He had planned to throw it away, hadn't he? Weeks ago? Days ago? Months ago? He could not remember how long they'd been here. 

He remembered that he and Sherlock were in the midst of a conversation. Looked up. 

Sherlock's head was very close to the flower, magnifying glass in hand, intensely focused and intensely distracted at once, his lips barely brushing against its velvety surface in an unconscious kiss. Its wide-lipped opening was nearly the size of his head, the smooth mottled inside stained with rusty blood trails. 

There were no teeth, but it was an easy enough thing to imagine.

He moved towards Sherlock without thinking, got an arm around his chest, pulled him back from the table. 

Sherlock dropped his magnifying glass. 

"Don't," John said, his mind full of Sherlock disappearing into vines, choked, unresisting. "Don't get so close." 

"It's just a plant," Sherlock said. His voice was unconvinced, his breath unsteady. His heart was thundering against his ribs where John's forearm had pressed. 

"Nefarious purposes," John said, not letting him go, his lips close to Sherlock's ear. His own heart was pounding. "You said it yourself." 

Sherlock turned to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep, fever-bright with curiosity. A bad combination, in Sherlock. Always.

"You're dreaming too," John said, certain now.

"Am I dreaming now?" 

"No," John said. And then he looked around, helpless. "I don't think so." 

"How do you know?"

"You know when I'm dreaming," John said. 

"Oh," Sherlock said, and seemed to accept that. Then. "You dream about me?" 

"Stop having Molly bring you body parts," John said. "You're making it worse." 

Sherlock laughed, the sound soft, unhappy. "Aren't you a little bit worried about what it might do if it gets hungry?" 

"Yes," John said. "I am. As a matter of fact. And I'm pretty sure that she'll eat you. So keep your head out of her mouth." 

"She?" 

"It." 

"You called it a name," Sherlock said, his voice very tired, faraway. "Before. When it was small." 

"Audrey," John said. "From the movie. Doesn't really fit." 

"What do you call it now?"

John laughed, tugged a little bit, and Sherlock came away from the table willingly, followed him down the hallway to the bedroom. "You don't want to know that." 

"Yes," Sherlock said, tired, faded, curling on his side in his bed, drawing the blankets around him. "I want to know. I want to know everything." 

"I know you do," John said. 

Sherlock shut his eyes. "Tell me," he said. 

His breathing slowed, steadied. 

John stood, went to the door. The kitchen, only a few paces away, vines in the hallway, stretching, reaching, a slow onward creep. The smell in the air, wet and fetid plant matter, blood, faint rot. 

He shut the door, leaned against it, looked at Sherlock. He was vulnerable, in sleep. 

John went back over to the bed, sat at the edge. Took off his shoes, stretched out on his back atop the duvet, not touching Sherlock. 

Closed his eyes.

*

"We should feed her Mycroft," Sherlock said. 

"No." 

"She's going to want more than fingers soon, surely you know that." 

"Yeah, I've seen the movie," John said. "I know. But we're not chopping anyone up. And particularly not your brother." 

"You're dreaming," Sherlock said. 

"Yes," John agreed, mild. "So are you." 

"If we're dreaming, it shouldn't matter." 

"Hard to argue with your logic." 

"I know," Sherlock, smug, in his chair. 

John frowned. "You called the plant _her._ That's not something you would do. If we were awake. 'Why would anyone name a plant' you'd say." 

Sherlock scrunched up his brow, frowned. 

"So tell me what you named her," Sherlock said. "If you're so sure you're dreaming." 

"I called her Irene," John said, embarrassed, looking away.

Scrunched brow again, confused expression. "What? Why?" 

"Because I was feeling mean," John said. It was easier to speak in his dreams. Freeing. 

Sherlock tilted his head, uncomprehending. 

"Never mind," John said. 

The surface of Sherlock's chair had gone gummy, was sticking to the cuffs of his sleeves, clinging to the fabric of his trousers. 

"Oh," Sherlock said, his voice heavy, dismayed. "I don't like this part." 

"Don't leave," John said. He stood up, pulled free of the clinging fabric of his own chair. His fingers found Sherlock's, tightened. Tugged. 

"I always do," Sherlock said, his fingers pulling free, disappearing into the tarry surface of his chair. 

*

John woke to Sherlock clinging, vinelike, to his side. His skin was hot, clammy with sleep, face lined with tension. 

His eyes cracked open, silver slits, tentative. 

"Oh," he said, when he realized where he was.

"Are we awake?" John asked, not raising his voice from a whisper. The room around them was dark. Close.

Sherlock did not answer, just went on looking at him. 

John's arm was snugged around Sherlock's waist, holding him close. He wasn't particularly inclined to let go.

"Why were you feeling mean?" Sherlock asked. 

John's heart kicked. "What?" 

"You said you called the plant 'Irene' because you were feeling mean." 

"I didn't say that." 

"Yes you did." 

"I didn't say it out loud," John corrected. "I was dreaming." 

"Were you?" Sherlock's voice, curiously flat. He made no move to pull away.

*

"Why am I here?" John asked Sherlock, leaning in, whispering the question in his friend's ear. 

The church was crowded, family and friends with expectant, rapt faces. 

The altar was twined with vines, thick, curling ones, lightly fuzzed, odd veiny leaves. Red, amongst the foliage, berries or blood, hard to tell for sure. 

An odd motif, to be sure, but John wasn't much for wedding planning. Mary and Sherlock had come up with it, no doubt. Probably saw it in a magazine somewhere. 

There was a flower where the priest was to stand, huge, yellow, mouth yawing open. Something moved inside, slipping up into view, sensuous, sinuous. He hesitated to call it a tongue. 

There was a fine dusting of pollen in the air, a faint smell of decay. 

"You know why you're here," Sherlock said. His back was ramrod straight, his hair recently trimmed and tamed. He was chewing on his lip, nervous, not quite as composed as he seemed. 

"No," John said, shaking his head. "No, I don't. I've already done this, Sherlock. It was a disaster." 

Sherlock lifted his head, looked at him. There was sadness in his gaze, vast oceans of sorrow, galaxies of it. 

"This is what you do," he said. 

"I don't want to," John said. 

Sherlock shrugged, helpless. He looked away. 

"I don't like to dream about her," John said, desperate. "I've had enough. I don't want to see her." 

"What makes you think you're dreaming?" 

"I know I am," he said. "Because this has already happened." 

"It's time, John," Sherlock said. 

"Don't leave." 

Sherlock ignored him, drew away, stepped up behind the altar. 

He was wearing a priest's collar, John realized, like he had that day they'd tried to fool Irene Adler. How had he not noticed before? There was a bruise, a reddened blemish of split skin on Sherlock's cheekbone, marring that otherwise unspoiled pale complexion. 

Not untouchable after all. 

Organ music struck up from somewhere. The wedding march. 

The people in the church stood as one, turned towards the doors. 

John looked helplessly at Sherlock. Sherlock looked back at him, and then his lips pulled up into a smile, terribly false and bright. 

Behind him, the flower quivered. 

A gasp, reverent exhalations. Mary, smiling, approaching from the other end of the aisle, ivory lace trailing between the pews. Pollen heavy in the air. 

In her hands was a bouquet of baby's breath. Nestled amongst the tiny white buds, a gun. 

"Sherlock," John said, looking back at him. Had he seen? He must have, he was Sherlock Holmes for Christ's sake. 

But Sherlock wasn't looking at Mary. Sherlock was looking at John. The bruise had faded away from his cheek. Instead, his lip was split, dribbling fresh blood down the front of his shirt. 

Mary pulled the trigger. A yellow starburst amongst the baby's breath, a brief fiery flower, a whipcrack of sound. 

Sherlock stumbled, put his hands down flat on the altar. Shut his eyes. 

"No," John said, and went towards him. 

Sherlock held up his hand, shook his head. He opened his eyes, the motion slow, pained. He clasped one hand over his bleeding chest, braced the other one against the altar. Breathed in, ragged. Smiled. _Smiled._

"We are gathered here today," Sherlock said, still smiling, falsely happy. His voice was steady, if strained. His one hand, gripping the edge of the altar, trembled. Blood flowed freely through the fingers of his other hand. 

Mary reached out for John's hand. Took it.

"To—to celebrate—" Sherlock, struggling for breath, face still frozen in a smile. He lost his grip on the altar, tipped backwards, disappeared into the waiting mouth of the flower without making a sound. 

*

"No," John said, and opened his eyes. He was in his room. His little upstairs room at Baker Street. 

He sat up, rubbed at his eyes. His skin was clammy. 

He went down the stairs to the kitchen, dreading what he might find. 

The kitchen had become impassable, the fridge snarled up in vines, the table vanished under fat, healthy leaves. The flower itself, proud, a quivering crown jewel. 

A moment of panic, blinding, wrenching, at the absence of Sherlock. 

He pushed past tendrils of vine, plunged through the leaves and down the hall towards Sherlock's bedroom. Already prepared to find it empty, ready to grieve anew. 

Sherlock, on his side. The room dark, curtains drawn against the grey morning light. 

"John," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse and cracked with something that might have been relief. "You were here. Then you weren't." 

"Sherlock," John answered, went and sat down on the edge of the bed, looked down. 

Sherlock's cheeks were hollowed, skin sallow, eyes dark and sunken. 

"Dreaming," Sherlock said. 

"Not right now," John said. 

"Why was it mean?" 

"What?" 

Sherlock shut his eyes, breathed, nestled his face against his pillow. "Calling the plant 'Irene.' Why was it mean, John? I need to know." 

"Because it's not nice to speak ill of the—" he cut himself off, bit his lip hard. 

Sherlock laughed, a startling bubble of sound. He rolled over onto his stomach, face pressed harder into his pillow. "She's not dead." 

John winced. "Um." 

"You think she's dead. You think you're sparing my feelings by hiding it," Sherlock's voice, muffled and indistinct. 

"Am I not?" John asked, quiet, unable to help himself. The sight of Sherlock sleep-rumpled and vulnerable had left him feeling indescribably fond. 

"There's nothing for you to spare, John," Sherlock said. "She's alive and well. I'm quite certain of that. So feel free to speak as ill as you'd like, if that's all that was stopping you." 

John breathed, the sound quiet and somehow weighty in the close darkness. He put a tentative hand on Sherlock's shoulder, felt the heat of his skin through his t-shirt. 

"Am I dreaming?" 

"You didn't think so, a moment ago." Sherlock said. He'd gone mumbly, sleepy. 

"I can't seem to tell anymore. What day is it?" 

"Hm. Don't know. Irrelevant." 

"Might be relevant." 

"Doubtful." 

Sherlock had turned his head, just slightly, his face mashed up against his pillow, lips pouting out. His eyes drifted shut. 

John surprised himself by leaning down and kissing Sherlock, a single firm press against warm lips, awkward angle, face crushed against the bedding. Sherlock breathed in, sharply. 

"Now I know we're dreaming," John said. 

Sherlock didn't answer, just shifted over so that John could climb in next to him. It was warm inside his cocoon of blankets. 

*

"Something will have to be done," Sherlock said. They were adrift, the bed bobbing lazily down a gentle river. Vines choked the riverbanks on both sides. 

"I wanted to throw it out," John said. "Ages ago. Before all of this happened." 

"You were just going to chuck a one-of-a-kind hallucinogenic bloodsucking plant into one of Mrs Hudson's bins?" 

"You told me to throw it out," John said. Sherlock was a warm comfortable weight against him. 

"That was before I knew it was interesting." 

"There is such a thing as _too_ interesting." 

Sherlock looked scandalized. 

A faint roaring, up ahead. Growing louder. The water beneath them gathered speed, became choppy. John's teeth clacked together. 

"Not good," he said. 

"It's fine," Sherlock said, calm. He sat up straight, eyes scanning the horizon. "Grab that branch," he said, pointing to a low-hanging tree. 

John jumped for it, fingers scrabbling, holding firm, pulling himself up. Watched as the bed, and Sherlock, floated on. 

"Sherlock!" he shouted, legs kicking over open air.

"It couldn't hold us both," Sherlock called back. "It would break." 

Behind him, the entire world seemed to gather its misty breath before coming to an abrupt end, the bed carrying him inexorably towards the drop. 

His eyes stayed locked on John's as he fell. 

*

The bedroom door was blocked. Vines had wound around the doorknob, through the hinges, feeling around through the gap underneath. 

"Inconvenient," Sherlock said. 

"Is this real?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Feels real." 

"I don't know what feels real anymore," John confessed.

"I will admit that time is a bit—hard to pin down at the moment." Sherlock was eyeing his bedroom window. 

"You could phone Mycroft," John said. "Escape while it's distracted with him." 

Sherlock looked at him.

"Just a joke," John said. "Joking." 

"Were you?" 

"I don't know," he sighed. "I'm not certain of anything anymore." 

Sherlock's eyes were pale, inquisitive. 

*

There were corpses stacked up against the door. Criminals, mostly. Bad people. Hopefully. 

A fine sheen of sweat stood out on Sherlock's brow as he dragged another one in, leaving a wet crimson smear on the floorboards. He was humming, serene. 

Fat, snakelike vines coiled around the nearest one, pulled it towards the waiting mouth. 

"This is how you see me?" Sherlock asked quietly, letting go of the corpse's arms. They flopped against the ground. 

"What do you mean?" John was not looking at him. John was looking at the flower, slowly but quite surely digesting an actual real human being. 

"You think I'm capable of this." 

"You keep the fridge stocked with a steadily rotating supply of human body parts." 

"Spare bits," Sherlock said. "The results of my experiments often benefit real, living people. I would think that far outweighs any minor inconvenience that a stiff in the morgue might feel over missing a few toes." 

"My point still stands."

"As does mine," Sherlock said.

"What are we fighting about?" 

"We're fighting about the fact that your subconscious isn't at all surprised to see me piling corpses up in our flat." 

"Would you prefer I be horrified?" 

"Yes," Sherlock said, vehement.

*

"I'd be horrified," John said, sorry, mournful, soothing, his hand rubbing along Sherlock's back. They were still in bed. When was the last time they'd gotten out of bed? "I would." 

"Good," Sherlock said, cracking his eyes open. He did not look rested at all. He rolled over, curled up with his head against John's chest. 

"That's not how I see you," he said. "You're good, Sherlock. You are. Better than me." 

Sherlock made a distressed sound, shook his head.

"I don't know how long we've been in here," John said, finally.

Sherlock shrugged, unconcerned. 

"We'll need to eat, eventually." 

"So will it." 

"That's—" John frowned. "Not actually comforting." 

*

"Christ. This is awkward," Lestrade said, tightening the cuffs around John's wrists. "I'm not going to pretend that it isn't awkward, or that things didn't go tits up the last time the two of you were arrested. But. I've got multiple witnesses that say they saw the pair of you go after a pickpocket in Regents Park and—well—" 

He looked meaningfully at the bloodied corpse against the wall. His face had gone slightly green. 

"It's not what it looks like," John said. 

"No, it's exactly what it looks like," Sherlock corrected. "You may want to go look in the kitchen, Inspector." 

He disappeared around the corner. John shut his eyes.

*

"It's nice to know I maintain a measure of my own wit in your dreams," Sherlock said. 

"They're your dreams too. It's your wit." 

"Mm," Sherlock made a pleased sound. He pressed a kiss to John's forehead, his lips warm and dry. "Death is a rather severe punishment for a pickpocket, don't you think?" 

"He was a terrible pickpocket. Dropped your wallet in the mud." 

"Oh, well, in that case." 

"As I thought," John said. He was warm, content. He did not want to move. 

He thought the dream should have disturbed him, but couldn't quite muster up the energy to care.

"If I were the plant, I'd let us think that we won." 

"What?" 

"A foolish notion, of course, as interesting as it is, the plant doesn't _actually_ possess any level of higher reasoning, let alone anything close to my own intellectual capacity. It deploys some sort of neurochemical to lull its prey." He paused, flushing slightly. "I seem to have found myself too—well. Lulled. To properly identify the toxin." 

"Is that what we are? Lulled?" 

"Would you disagree?" 

"No," John said, after a moment. "I suppose not." He hesitated. "You've stopped leaving. In my dreams." 

"That was getting to be rather unpleasant. As were the gunshots." 

John shut his eyes against a sudden stinging. "Sorry. I'm—" 

"Although."

John opened his eyes. "No, it's—it's not really fair that you have a window into my head. I don't mean for you to see these things." 

"Are you so sure it's your head?" 

John blinked, twitched back. "What?" 

"You seem certain they're your dreams. But they could be mine. They might be mine." 

"Why would you—why would you dream about that?" John asked. 

Sherlock laughed miserably. "You tell me. You're the one who claims to know something about human nature." His quiet breaths puffed against John's lips. He opened his mouth to speak, shut it again. Breathed out a great, shuddering sigh. "I don't know what's real. I don't know if this is real. I can't trust my senses." 

There was a dull, resigned horror in his voice. 

John swallowed against rising panic, stroked the back of Sherlock's head. 

"It's in my mind palace," Sherlock said. "Did you know that?" 

He thought about that for a long, terrible moment. It had invaded his dreams, of course. But to think of it winding its vines through the structure of Sherlock's entire mind, twining itself around everything he knew, grabbing, choking, twisting—

"We'll need to kill it," John said. He nodded, once, gave the back of Sherlock's head one last squeeze, the dark hair tugging through his fingers. "I'm going to kill it." 

He stood up. 

"John," Sherlock said. 

"I'm going to kill it," he said again. 

*

John opened his eyes. 

He was in his little bedroom. Alone. 

He sat up in bed for a moment, blinking in the light. Then he got up, went down the stairs. 

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, reading. The plant had been cleared away, the scuffed table bare and neat. There was no sign of it, not so much as a lone curled leaf swept into a corner. It had disappeared as effectively as any one of Sherlock's experiments did, when he was through with them. 

He breathed in. 

The heavy scent of vegetation that had permeated the flat was gone. In its place were other things, familiar things, dust and formaldehyde and cigarette smoke. 

There was something wrenching in his chest, something he couldn't quite put name to.

He sat down across from Sherlock. Put his hands flat on the table. The surface was firm, solid. 

He took another breath. His exhale emerged shaky.

Sherlock looked up, met his eyes. He did not speak, did not blink. There was something in his face, something captive, uncertain. 

They stared at each other.

The linoleum was cool against John's bare feet. 

John looked away from Sherlock, swept his gaze around the room. It was as it should be. He nodded, once, looked back down at the table. Cleared his throat. 

"Tea?" Sherlock asked. 

"Yeah," John said, taking another shaky breath. He looked up again, met Sherlock's eyes. Managed a smile. "Yeah, tea would be great." 

Sherlock nodded, stood, went to fill the kettle.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!
> 
>  
> 
> The movie John makes vague reference to is, of course, _Little Shop of Horrors._
> 
> This owes a small bit of inspiration to the awesome _X-Files_ episode "Field Trip," where Mulder and Scully hallucinate whilst being digested by a giant mushroom.


End file.
